


Not All Wounds Heal

by theocoeur



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25749004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theocoeur/pseuds/theocoeur
Summary: No adventures are wanted at Bag End, not anymore. But sometimes you don’t always get what you want.  After destroying the One Ring and bringing peace back to Middle Earth, all Sam and Frodo want to do is settle down and relax, for a very long time. But a dark evil resurfaces in a way unexpected, and this time they have to face it alone.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, frodo/being sad all the time
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter One: A Spring Shire Day

The early morning air, crisp and cool, ruffled through the trees as the sun shone her luminous face once more over the rolling hills of the Shire. The high grass followed suit, waving gently as the birds woke and began their harmonies. All was beautiful and warm, just as it should be, as Samwise the gardener brought Frodo Baggins a warm bowl of soup, crusted rosemary bread, and a mug of tea. None of these were too hot for the spring day, however, and were accepted with a grateful smile from Frodo.   
"Thank you, Sam,” he said, taking a sip of the tea. "This is lovely, but you did not have to do this, use your time and effort for such a silly thing as breakfast." Across Sam's face a smile bloomed as he sat on the very end of Frodo's bed.   
‘‘Its no trouble at all, really,” he said, handing Frodo a napkin. "With you feeling ill and all, it's only the right thing to do.”He laughed. "What else could I do, sit about, and watch you make your own breakfast?”   
Frodo let a small laugh slip as he ate the soup. Though it had been nearly half a year since he and the other hobbits had returned to the Shire after their quest, he still had a lingering hurt. Added onto the burden of the Ring, he had been pierced by a Morgul blade, a type of weaponry carried only by the scornful Ringwraiths, and Frodo had never seemed to quite shake it. The wound had been healed in Rivendell by the elves, of course, but every now and then it would ache.  
For long it the pain was quick and sparse, the occasional prick, but as of late it had become trouble getting himself out of bed and even going outside for longer than a few hours. To Frodo, it felt as the wound was as it was first inflicted. During the nights he tossed and turned and woke up in a cold sweat, half-dry tears making his face sticky. He would never remember, but Sam always said that he would cry out and speak as he slept, waking the gardener out of a dead sleep. But no matter how horrid Frodo felt, Sam would always be there at his side, ready with a cup of water, a comforting story, or a soft arm to rest on.   
Sometimes Frodo would wake clutching Sam's hand in a tight grip and turn to see him fast asleep, often with a blanket wrapped around him. Frodo would die before admitting, but at times he would watch Sam as he slept, not with any malicious or ill intent. He was so peaceful, his chest rising and falling as he breathed, mouth slightly open. He looked as there was nary a worry or care to cross his mind. And then Frodo would close his eyes again, knowing that he was as safe as he could be.   
Sam softly shook his shoulder, waking him.   
"Frodo,” he said, gently taking the empty bowl from Frodo's hands. “It's a delightful day out today. Why don't we sit in the back garden for a while?” Frodo nodded in agreement and sat up a bit.   
"Why don't you go get cleaned up,” he said to Sam. “I'll do the same. I'm feeling better today” he insisted as Sam tried to help him up. “I'm alright, honest.”   
Sam sighed and put his hand on Frodo's shoulder.   
“Alright then,” he said, smiling warmly. “Holler if it ends up you do need help, and I'll be there quicker than you can say Tom Bombadilo by the reed and willow." Frodo nodded and slowly stood up as Sam walked out of the room. He walked over to his wardrobe and picked out several items and set them upon the bed. Rinsing his face with a bit of water, he pulled on the clean clothes, making sure to be careful as he did. He didn't want Sam to have to hurry in and help him like a child. He resented the fact that he was injured, it was a subject of embarrassment and regret. Frodo felt like a fragile thing, treated like he was to break at any moment. He was grateful to no end for the kindness he had been shown, but to him it felt as though he were a burden. So he pushed through the rough days and pushed even through the good ones, determined to get better.   
Once he had gotten through Bag End and to the back garden with the help of one of Bilbo's old walking sticks, he saw that Samwise had set up a place for them to sit and relax. Several blankets were placed on the ground with some ancient yet comfortable pillows for use of a makeshift chair. Sam sat on one of the blankets and was reading a dog-eared, well-worn book as he fiddled with a few planting pots and flowers. The garden was bright and vibrant as ever, with every bush and flower perfectly in place. It was a sight that felt like home to Frodo; like sitting out with his dear uncle and chatting, or laying on the luscious grass with friends, smoking pipeweed. He smiled as he remembered the lovely things that had happened in dear old Bag End, and walked out onto the grass. He sat down as Sam put down his book to pot a particularly colorful bunch of flowers. Sam smiled at Frodo and moved a few pillows around to make him more comfortable.   
"Quite nice out here, as I said, hm?” Sam asked. Frodo nodded and noticed that Sam had a little smudge of dirt on his cheek, and smiled back. Out in the hills came were shouts of little hobbits running about through clotheslines and flowerbeds. There was singing and brawling, the gentle thump of pony's hooves, wagons passing, and even the faint gurgle of a brook. All felt as it should, all in place for the makings of a splendid spring afternoon.   
Out in the sun they sat, out until late afternoon, when the sun was nearly hidden behind the hills. Crickets began to sing their familiar tune, as the Shire began to move inside for the night. Lights flickered over the emerald grass as the smells of fish and bread and meat cooking filled the air, and all was peaceful and quiet. Sam and Frodo finally began to clean up their things, fold up the blanket and head back inside. Samwise took the more heavy objects from Frodo and went inside as Frodo sat admiring the sunset. There were many evenings like this one yet he never grew tired of them. They reminded him of nights in his childhood when he would stay out even later than this, come home muddied and bug-bitten, gotten a bath and sat near the fire as his uncle Bilbo told stories of his great adventure. With his words he painted scenes of dragons and heaps of gold, of cold mountain evenings, of giants, wizards, and a very special group of dwarves. Frodo’s favourite dwarf was one called Thorin, the ruler of the great kingdom of Erebor. He admired his great strength and solemness, and Bilbo always seemed so very fond of him. Near the end of the story Bilbo always got a bit teary-eyed, and not until his own adventure did Frodo truly realize why, and felt the same feeling of loss. But Bilbo would always wipe his eyes with an old handkerchief and grin, always giving the story a happy ending.  
Frodo smiled at the memory. He missed old Bilbo dearly, but one day he would see him again. He knew it.   
The hobbit stood up and brushed off the soil off of his breeches. He picked up his book and absent-mindedly flipped through as he walked back to the house. Frodo could smell soup coming from the house; Samwise had been waiting for a stew to cook all day and it had filled the house with a delightful aroma. Frodo grinned and walked up to the door.   
“Sam,” he called. “What can I help with?”   
“Nothing!” Sam said from the kitchen. “Just get the silverware and we can eat on the dining table!”   
Frodo began to walk to the cabinet but as he neared it he felt an odd feeling, a sort of cold, nearly petrifying. It made the tips of his fingers freeze and his chest ache, and he gasped for breath as he grabbed the counter. He could hear Sam singing in the kitchen, unaware as to what was happening, and as Frodo tried to cry out, his throat tightened and all that came out was a sort of near silent scream. The coldness, Frodo now realized, spread from below his shoulder. The Morgul wound.   
“Frodo?” Sam called in a jolly tone. “Supper’s ready!” But Frodo couldn’t respond. His hand slipped as he fell, cracking his head upon the wooden floor, and fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all i am SO sorry about the paragraph breaks, or lack thereof i’m So bad at technology and also uploading these on my phones so just bare with me lmao


	2. Cold Morgul Steel

Frodo woke in his bed, light gently streaming into the curtained room. A soft snore he heard by him, and as he turned he saw Samwise asleep in a chair. He had a bag of bandages and such laying on the ground next to him and had what Frodo thought chillingly to be blood on the tips of his fingers.   
He got to get up out of bed but as he did, his knees buckled and he fell onto the end of the bed frame. Sam jolted awake and ran over to Frodo.   
“Don’t try to get up!” he exclaimed. He took Frodo by the waist and gently sat him back in the bed. By now Frodo noticed that there were bandages on his chest, about where he had felt the pain however many hours earlier. Sam noticed him looking down at the bandages.   
“Now, it’s no reason to be frightened,” he said, brows slightly furrowed. “It’s all fixed up now.”  
Quizzically, Frodo asked   
“What happened? I can’t quite remember.”  
Sam got up and got a rag, wiping off his hands.   
“Well,” he said. “I am not quite sure. Somehow your wound, you know, the one you got by those nasty wraiths, opened up again.” He shook his head, setting down the cloth. “I thought it was past healed, just a scar.”   
Frodo nodded with a slight grimace.   
“Well, it's been feeling a bit strange these days, sometimes-”  
“What do you mean?” interjected Sam. “It’s been feeling strange? Has it bled like that before?”  
Frodo shook his head.   
“No, it’s just been, well, a bit painful. At times. Not often,” he added hastily, seeing Sam’s worried expression, “But just sometimes I’ll feel it ache a bit.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam asked. “I could have helped you. How long has it been feeling like this?”  
Frodo shrugged.   
“It started a little while after we got home, I suppose. Not more than two or three months.”   
Sam nodded.   
“That’s why you’ve been feeling so ill and acting so odd lately. I thought you just had a terrible cold or something, not that the old cut was still hurting.”  
Frodo stared out a window, trying to take in what had happened. Yes, the wound had opened again, but why? Sauron was gone, all bits of him destroyed. It felt too good to be true, even after all the horrors he had endured ridding the world of it, but it was a relief after all this time. But still, a sinking feeling endured in the pit of his stomach.   
Sam interrupted his train of thought.   
“Why don’t I bring you some stew? I know you’ve become tired of it, but I think you’ll like this one. It’s mushroom, well, most of it, and carrots, and a bit of pumpkin. Although,” he added, scrunching his face “I’m not so sure about the pumpkin. Thought it might be nice, you know, something different, but-”  
“I’m sure anything you cook will be just wonderful, Sam.” Frodo said gently, earning a beam from Samwise as he went into the kitchen.   
Unsure, Frodo lay in bed. A clock gently counted seconds behind the soft wind, getting warmer as the day passed. Doing something he was quite good at, Frodo sat and thought. Thought about Sam, the garden, but mostly thought about the Ring and the Morgul Blade. Sometimes he would still find himself reaching in his pocket, muscle memory trying to find something there that wasn’t. It didn’t scare him, more made him uneasy of himself. He had lost a great part of him to the One Ring, something Sam would never understand. He would never be the same. He felt a weight on his shoulders, felt heavier and tired a lot of the days. But a part of him that he would never even hint to Samwise was that he missed the Ring. He despised to admit it, but during the long journey it had become a sort of grim comfort, a constant in the world that was constantly changing. Sometimes he would even hear a whisper in his ear, evil and dark, but would realize that it was only wind or a bit of paper.   
Sam would never understand. Would never understand how much the Ring took, how sickeningly good it felt to wear it. To be powerful and invisible, someone to be feared. But Frodo didn’t want to be feared, he told himself, shaking his head to try and get rid of the thought. But all of a sudden, he felt a sharp pain in his temple. It felt like a regular headache for a moment before it swelled to unbearable, making the light in the room tiny pinpricks and the walls swim. Frodo clenched his eyes and gritted his teeth, curling his legs up towards his chest as he clutched his head.  
A hissing sound began, like damned souls crying out under a rushing river. Words went too fast to catch, were they even words? A heat pulsed, hotter and hotter, until it scorched. And that is when the unimaginable occurred; in Frodo’s mind, clear as a glass pane, he saw the Eye of Sauron.   
It swiveled to and fro, looking hungrily and feverishly. But suddenly it swung and fixed on Frodo, watching him, tearing his head in two, looking straight through him. Frodo could do nothing but stare in fear as the eye bore into him. Flames licked the edge of his vision, crawling up and up and up, burning and biting with so much hate and heat that Frodo finally screamed, a torn, shrieking sound not unlike Sauron’s watchful guards.   
Quickly, his vision snapped back to normal. Frodo’s eyes swam for a few moments before focusing on the room around him; the scorched sheets, the smoke, Samwise standing in the door jam, eyes wide and mouth agape, a bowl of stew spilled on the floor.   
Frodo looked up at Sam, chest heaving, fear in his eyes.   
“Samwise.” he said, quietly yet urgently. “Sauron has returned.”


End file.
